


Prelude: Bits and Bobs

by rokhal



Series: Fullmetal Ghostrider [2]
Category: Ghost Rider (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fullmetal Alchemist 2003/Brotherhood Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Fifteen Minute Fic, Gabe Reyes has ADHD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Robbie Reyes Has PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokhal/pseuds/rokhal
Summary: More pre-story and establishing fics in the Fullmetal Ghostrider AU--written fifteen minutes at a time.
Series: Fullmetal Ghostrider [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664023
Kudos: 3





	1. The reason we're in this mess

“Life turns to death,” the being said. “Only life can create new life, and life cannot self-create. Each life is bound to its own death. That is the way.”

“Okay,” Eli said impatiently, both hands clamped down on the edges of his untried alchemical diagram. “But, say, what if someone dies. Clinically. And then they come back. It happens. Does that life have an extra death? Or a pregnant woman. Kill her and the baby. Is that one life, one death? Two lives, two deaths? Baby's not even breathing any air. That can't count for life.”

“It is the way. It conforms to the way.” The being scowled at him.

“I'm just saying, you've got a lot of extra deaths on one end of the scale. You're not in balance. You owe the world some lives.”

“And I suppose you want these lives.”

“I'm the only one asking.”

The being rotated inside the circle, its void-face fuzzing, flickering. “Whole life cannot be restored to the physical plane. Partial life can be had for a price.”

“Partial life.”

“What you call luck, and vigor. That factor that makes the difference between life and death.”

“I'll take it. How much?”

The being lurched forward suddenly, tentacles, spines rising up from its head and shoulders. The light from the circle below it almost went out. Eli whistled. “You would harvest from your own kind?”

Eli snorted. “What else are they good for?”

It drew itself up, collected the darkness around it, filled the space within the circle. “I will give you all the life force useful to your kind, whenever you kill a human being in the name of Blackheart.”

Eli grinned. “Now we're talking. I look forward to a long and fruitful partnership, Blackheart.”


	2. Zen and the art of leaving your shit all over the place

Robbie wasn't a neat freak per se, but chaos and slovenliness upset him and motivated him to put things in order, or to harass Gabe until Gabe helped put things in order. This was why the apartment, the kitchen, and Robbie's room were eternally prepared for a visit from a social worker, and Robbie bought colored sticky-marks and paper clips for all his books, _and sometimes used them._ But expose Gabe to a room carpeted in second-hand clothing, paint-spattered newspapers, and half-finished miniatures, and within ten minutes he would become blind to the mess.

“I can find stuff when I need it,” Gabe protested as Robbie stared down wearily from the doorway.

“Where's your first dungeon manual?” Robbie countered, and screw him for picking the one book Gabe hadn't had occasion to touch for six months.

Gabe relaxed, shut his eyes, took a deep breath. Pictured the manual in his head. If he pushed for the memory too hard, it would be gone, but the knowledge was there, he knew the battered cover, he knew the pages that stuck together from spilling soda on them...

The last night he'd used the thing popped into his head, the GrisleFell campaign with Ty and Nita and Javier, Robbie had broiled some frozen tater tots for them, it was winter so it was a little cold. Gabe had been wearing his windbreaker. He spotted the windbreaker peeking out from under a blanket on the floor, shoved them both out of the way, and triumphantly lifted the dungeon manual.

Robbie clapped politely, leaning against the doorway.

“I _told_ you,” Gabe said.

“Yep, you're right. Point taken,” he said. “You want some help, though? I wouldn't want to accidentally step on any of your mini-figs.”

“I'm fine,” Gabe protested, but no, he wasn't fine, he just couldn't imagine buckling down for the four hours it would take to pick up and organize all this crap. “I mean, actually, thanks.”


	3. Parentification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a happy chapter.  
> Robbie has panic attacks that manifest in violent outbursts. He directs these outbursts at a punching dummy, but they're still scary for Gabe to watch.  
> Robbie gets panic attacks over Gabe's grades because he's terrified of Gabe growing up to be trapped in their neighborhood like he is, and he also has a lingering paranoia that CPS might take Gabe away if they think Robbie's not doing a good enough job at raising him.

“Just, _five minutes,_ get the fuck off my back!” Gabe snarled over the kitchen table, and Robbie stood so fast the chair tipped over behind him, his hands were hot, he was shaking, he couldn't see, he couldn't hold still, and Gabe— _didn't he understand how important this was, he had to, he had to, Robbie couldn't do this without Gabe—_

Gabe had also stood up. He looked scared, because Robbie needed to hit something, and Robbie was angry, and Gabe couldn't do this without Robbie either. What was wrong with them?

“I'm sorry,” Gabe said in a small voice.

Robbie crossed into the living room where the boxing target stood; the foam was crumbling from sun damage and bits of rubber and sand constantly shed out around its base since Robbie had picked it up at a yard sale that summer. He hit it in the face and its rubbery jaw snapped back. Instead of falling, its expressionless, moldering face stared right back at him, like he'd done nothing. Punching the rubber man did nothing to calm Robbie down, but he couldn't stop; it was like a dam opened inside him, releasing an infinite surge of rage, and he hit the dummy over and over, until its sand-filled base skidded backward on the newspapers it rested on and bumped against the living room wall, until his fists started to slip on its surface and leave smudges on the gray rubber, his breath came hoarse and heaving, and his legs grew weak. Still the dummy stood, facing him, it _wouldn't fucking go down,_ just kept rocking back at him after every blow, and nothing Robbie did made a difference.

Robbie lunged forward, wrapped one arm around the dummy's neck and bit it, high under its ear. The bitter taste and crumbly texture shocked him out of his fugue. This was unsanitary, what was he doing. His hands were bleeding. He collapsed to the floor, but now the dummy was looming over him, and he scooted himself away until his back rested against the TV stand.

“You okay?” Gabe asked, softly, from the kitchen. Robbie heard the sink running, then Gabe came over with a damp dishtowel.

“Sorry,” Robbie choked. “Just had to. Let it out, I guess.”

“I'll keep trying,” Gabe assured him, and that made Robbie feel low as a snake, because Gabe had _just told him_ that he was trying as hard as he could. “I'll do better. I'll get extra credit. History's hard, but it's not _hard-_ hard, it's just...you know.”

“I'm sorry, I know you're trying,” Robbie said. “I wish I could help but I don't have _time,_ I don't know what to do.”

“I can do it,” Gabe insisted. “Go lie down. Put something on your hands. I'll clean off your rubber guy, I'll do my reading. I promise.”

“Okay,” Robbie said.

When he woke up, it was to his alarm blaring at seven in the morning. Time for school, he was starving from missing dinner, and his hands ached from his skinned knuckles to his abused wrists. He didn't have time to ask Gabe if he'd actually done the reading.


End file.
